The Sequel
Last week, I wrote about Holland, Michigan and our long-running relationship with Tulip Time chaos, impossible parking, heat intolerance, goats giving birth, and wooden shoes. Consider this the continuation of that story because apparently Holland has become one of our recurring little Michigan side quests.
This time, we made another quick trip out there with one very specific mission: Evie needed new wooden shoes because she had already outgrown the pair we bought her last year.
Motherhood truly is just repeatedly spending money on tiny things your children will somehow outgrow before you emotionally process the receipt.
The Monday After Tulip Time
We’ve officially learned that we prefer Holland the Monday after Tulip Time ends.
You still get some lingering tulips.
You still get the Dutch charm.
But you avoid the absolute madness that comes with peak festival week.
This is now the second year we’ve intentionally waited until after the crowds died down a little, and honestly? It’s become the superior strategy.
When we arrived at Windmill Island Gardens, the weather immediately pulled that classic Michigan move where the sunshine tricks you into confidence before the wind slaps you directly in the soul.
We climbed out of the minivan thinking it looked beautiful outside only to immediately start digging for jackets because the breeze had bite to it.
Tiny Celebrities in a Wagon
We loaded the girls into the wagon and started making our way toward the entrance.
Unfortunately for our ability to move efficiently, a coach bus full of senior citizens had arrived at almost the exact same time.
Now, to be clear, I genuinely adore seniors.
I love hearing their stories. I love their honesty. I love the fact that older people will casually tell you deeply personal information in public like you’ve known each other for thirty years.
But senior citizens plus two adorable toddlers equals getting stopped every six feet so strangers can admire your children.
And admire them they did.
Every few minutes we were stopping so someone could gush over the girls, ask questions, wave at them, or tell us about their own grandchildren. At one point I think we spent more time socializing than actually walking toward the gift shop.
Tulips Fighting For Their Life
Instead of taking the direct route, we wandered the long way around so we could admire what was left of the tulips and grab photos with the windmill in the background.
The flowers were definitely nearing the end of their season at that point. Still pretty, but barely hanging on. Honestly relatable.
There’s something weirdly poetic about late-stage tulips. Slightly wilted, exhausted, still trying their best despite the wind aggressively working against them.
Eventually we made it to the gift shop where we acquired:
- a fifty-dollar pair of wooden shoes Evie will likely outgrow within the next three months,
- some wooden tulips,
- and ceramic bees because apparently I physically cannot leave a gift shop without tiny decorative nonsense.
We debated walking all the way over to the windmill afterward, but both my mom and I were exhausted already. Somewhere between motherhood, stress, hormones, life, and existing as women in general, our energy levels have become incredibly selective.
Then The Handmaid’s Tale Arrived
And this is where the vibe shifted dramatically.
Out of nowhere, this massive group of severely conservative women descended upon the gardens, and suddenly I became hyperaware of my crop top, tattoos, and general collection of life choices.
I am not exaggerating when I say it genuinely felt like The Handmaid’s Tale entered the chat.
At one point, I caught one woman fully scan me up and down before whispering something to her friend, and suddenly I felt like the physical embodiment of a parental advisory sticker.
Now maybe I was projecting.
Maybe I wasn’t.
Either way, every woman knows that strange feeling when a space suddenly stops feeling neutral. Nobody directly says anything to you, but you abruptly become aware that you are being perceived in a way that feels sharp around the edges.
So we collectively decided that was our cue to leave.
The Unofficial Start of Trip Season
Nothing especially dramatic happened during this trip.
Nobody chased geese into traffic. Nobody nearly collapsed from heat exhaustion. No farm animals unexpectedly went into labor in front of us.
Compared to some of our other Holland adventures, this one was actually pretty uneventful.
But weirdly, it still felt important.
We’ve technically already started branching out again this spring. A couple little road trips here and there. Random outings. Small escapes from the apartment and routine. But this trip felt different somehow. Like the real beginning of our summer wandering season.
Maybe it was the wagon. Maybe it was the wind coming off the lake. Maybe it was the familiar ritual of buying overpriced wooden shoes while the girls soaked in every tiny detail around them.
Or maybe it was just the feeling of movement again.
After long Michigan winters, motherhood routines, stress, exhaustion, and life generally trying to kick everyone’s ass for several consecutive months, there’s something healing about piling into the minivan with no real agenda beyond “let’s go somewhere.”
Even if “somewhere” only ends up being a few hours away.
The girls are getting older now, which means trips are slowly becoming easier, more interactive, and honestly more fun. We’re entering that stage where little memories are starting to stack up quickly—inside jokes, favorite stops, familiar traditions, and tiny annual rituals like replacing wooden shoes in Holland because your child’s feet apparently grow overnight.
And while this trip wasn’t huge or life changing, it felt like the kind of day that quietly marks the beginning of something.
Summer is coming. The wandering season is back. And apparently Holland has officially become part of our family’s recurring storyline.
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